


Time Alone

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Prompto's never really alone anymore, and mostly, he's just fine with that.Mostly, it's exactly what he's always wanted.Only, his friends happen to be stupidly attractive. Like really, ridiculously, unfairly attractive. Strangers on the street actively stare at Gladio without a shirt on. Ignis wears sock garters, smooths them up his slender calves every morning like it's no big deal. Noct somehow doesn't realize that when he wades into the water to pull a fish out, white t-shirt on, the cloth plasters right up against his skin, almost see-through.So yeah. Prompto likes that he's never really alone anymore. But he's also never really alone anymore, and the approximately hundred thousand awkward boners he gets every single day languish in his jeans, untended.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely anon on the kink meme who wanted:
> 
> Virgin Prompto is having a rough time. He's spending all day in a car with the three sexiest guys on Eos and all night trapped in a tent with them. To make matters worse, they keep running into absolute knockouts like Cindy and Aranea.
> 
> And every. Single. Time. He tries to find some alone time with his own hand, he gets interrupted before he can finish.
> 
> ++++My kingdom for 5+1 format.  
> +++++++++With the +1 being that one time chocobro of your choice walked in on him and actually helped him finish up.

Okay, so maybe the roadtrip's not always sun and roses.

Sometimes Prompto wakes up with his back killing him cause they've been camping on literal rocks. Sometimes they spend days in damp, claustrophobic caves packed with daemons. Once he found a spider in his Cup Noodles, and he screamed so loud Noct thought he'd been gored by a dualhorn.

So yeah, there's stuff he'd change – but there's good stuff, too.

There's getting to spend all day with people who actually want him around. There's bunking down at night without listening to the silence of an empty house for four hours before he makes his own dinner, eats it alone, and puts himself to bed. 

He hasn't had that since – gods, it's been a long time. Since he was seven, maybe, and his parents decided he was old enough to start taking care of himself, letting their work assignments take them farther afield.

So it's nice. It is. There's a lot of things he likes about it.

It's kind of like a sleepover every night. He can pester someone into playing King's Knight with him, most days, and sometimes he goes running with Gladio before dinner. Iggy never turns him away when he leans against the work bench to chat during meal prep, and Noct's always up for dumb photo ops, just the two of them.

Prompto's never really alone anymore, and mostly, he's just fine with that.

Mostly, it's exactly what he's always wanted.

Only, his friends happen to be stupidly attractive. Like really, ridiculously, unfairly attractive. Strangers on the street actively stare at Gladio without a shirt on. Ignis wears _sock garters_ , smooths them up his slender calves every morning like it's no big deal. Noct somehow doesn't realize that when he wades into the water to pull a fish out, white t-shirt on, the cloth plasters right up against his skin, almost see-through.

So yeah. Prompto likes that he's never really alone anymore. But he's also _never really alone anymore_ , and the approximately hundred thousand awkward boners he gets every single day languish in his jeans, untended.

It's driving him a little crazy.

So that's why he's here, pants around his ankles in the filthy rest stop bathroom stall in Cauthess. That's why his hand's fisted around his cock, pumping fast and intent, harder than he usually likes.

Noct's filling up the car. He's got maybe five minutes.

Prompto can do five minutes, easy. He's been waiting for this for what feels like forever.

He ducks his head – works himself harder still. He thinks of Gladio, shirt-free in the sun. Thinks of Iggy's entirely too complicated undergarments. Thinks of Noct's shirt, the barest hint of a nipple revealed through the wet.

He feels the tension start to coil in his stomach, a promise of pleasure.

Then someone slams the bathroom door open and steps inside. Prompto jumps – lets himself go, startled and guilty.

There's pounding on the door to the stall, and Gladio's voice: "Get a move on, sunshine. We're ready to roll out."

"Right," Prompto squeaks. "There in a jiffy."

He waits for Gladio to go so he can finish up – realizes, with an awful sort of sinking feeling, that he's not going anywhere. He's turning on the sink to run the water, splashing a bit. Probably wetting his face down, and in normal situations, Prompto wouldn't blame him. It's hot today.

Now, Prompto absolutely blames him.

Biting down a groan, he stuffs himself back into his underwear, then fights to get the zipper on his jeans back up over his throbbing erection. It takes a bit of doing, and when it's closed, Prompto wrestles with a brief, bitter regret over how tight his pants are. Then he flushes the toilet and stops moping.

A second later, he steps up to the second sink, grabs some soap, and washes his hands. "Sorry," Prompto says. "Ready to go." 

He hopes his grin is convincing. He hopes his face isn't flushed.

He really, really hopes that nothing else sexy happens for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

Three days out, and Prompto's problems are exactly the same – only decidedly more urgent.

Because here they are, in Hammerhead, moon high above them like a watching eye. Cindy's finished her work for the day and wandered over to join them, goddess of all things mechanical, come to grace mere mortals with her presence. She's draped into the chair next to Gladio, and the sight of the two of them sitting side by side, miles of bare skin a monument to perfect human forms, is almost more than Prompto can take.

Cindy's all compact power and mesmerizing curves. Prompto can't get enough: the way her jacket traces the lines of her; the way her hair falls, mussed, into her face; calloused hands and the smudge of grease on her knuckles.

Prompto shifts in his chair, trying not to stare.

He's probably blushing. His face feels hot as Ravatogh's lava, and he's been rock hard in his jeans for what feels like hours. His vest's draped over his lap to hide the evidence – stripped down earlier in the night, with a determinedly off-handed remark about how hot it is in the desert.

He's going to die, he thinks. He needs an excuse to escape his fate or he's done for.

So when Iggy says he's going to get a refill on his coffee, Prompto says "I've got it," faster than is probably at all cool or casual. 

It's not until he's standing, realizing belatedly that he has no excuse for the vest to be his cover anymore, that he thinks this might have been a mistake. Too late for regrets, Prompto tells himself, and darts inside the camper like it's a haven and there's a horde of daemons on his tail.

The blinds are closed, thank the gods, so no one can see him, standing there in the kitchen. No one can see him take a few steadying breaths, or wash his face with cold water. No one can see him squirm, awkwardly, and try to adjust himself through his jeans.

"Hey," Noct calls out. "Get me a soda while you're in there, would you?"

Prompto swallows. "Sure," he calls. "On it."

But he splashes more water on his face before he can quite bring himself to return to the group outside.

Later, standing in the tiny, closet-sized shower of the caravan's bathroom, Prompto lets the water rush over him and thinks about sweat and motor oil; about rumpled hair and a sweet, charming smile; about rough, capable hands that would probably be so much better than he is at what he's doing now.

The fantasy's interrupted by someone drumming idly at the door.

"Gladio says he's gonna strangle you if you use all the hot water," Noct calls through it. "Fair warning."

It is a fair warning. It's also just about the last thing he wants to hear, given that the water's getting tepid already.

He swears softly – turns off the shower.

"Dude," he calls through the door. "I'm like third in line. You and Iggy better eat some of the blame on this one."

But Noct only laughs at him, soft and unrepentant.

 

* * *

 

The tree bark is rough against his back, where his shirt's rucked up, and Prompto should probably care. There could be ants or something, trundling all over him with their creepy crawly bug legs. 

But all that's on his mind right now is his own hand, a loose fist around his cock. Every motion sends sparks through him, bright and electric; every time his thumb finds the head, his knees damn near buckle underneath him.

He's maybe forty feet out of camp, away from the rock circle of the haven. He can see the light from their fire from here, now banked to a fitful glow. He can hear Gladio snoring, deep rumbles that echo out across the forest.

Prompto should be on high alert for daemons, because the moon's been up for three hours already. Hell, he should be in his sleeping bag, dead to the world. But he can only lie still, desperate and distracted, for so long. He can only keep his mind from tearing itself apart with want for a reasonable amount of time, and that time passed about an hour ago.

So now here he is, fly open, stroking himself off more urgently than he has since high school, back when he first discovered that hey, yeah, his best friend looks really freaking good on his way out of the shower in gym class, towel slung low around his hips, water still clinging to long lashes.

Prompto bites his lip to keep a noise from slipping out – shudders and rocks into his own hand, needing more.

He's close. The tip of him is slick already, wet with precome. He can feel the heat coiling low in his belly – sinks more of his weight back against the tree, as he feels his thighs start to tense.

Then, suddenly, a low, rumbling groan cuts through the pleasure haze descending over his brain. Prompto opens his eyes – blinks dazedly out at the world for a moment. Not five feet to his right, there's a pool of black on the ground, thick and dark and churning. Even as he watches, it begins to resolve itself into solid form.

Prompto yelps. He shoves himself back into his jeans and yanks the zipper up in record time. He's halfway to the haven five seconds later, pulling himself back up over the top just in time for the iron giant in the forest below him to fully take form.

He stares out at it for a long time, willing it to give up and wander off so he can finish what he started. His cock is throbbing in his jeans, the denim delicious pressure every time he shifts. It would be so, so easy to slide a hand in and finish up, but the tent's not five feet away. All it would take for someone to get an eyeful is stepping out to grab a midnight snack.

So Prompto waits, and watches, and wills the iron giant to wander off and do whatever it is daemons do when there aren't humans around to terrorize.

And it does wander – from one side of the haven to the other. Then back again. Then back _again_.  

It's close to half an hour later before Prompto gives up hoping, huffs a frustrated sigh, and slips back into the tent.

 

* * *

 

The Leville's the nicest place they've stayed in pretty much forever.   

The walls are painted an attractive shade of sea-tone aqua, and the room's decorated with strange mechanical sculptures the likes of which Prompto's never seen before. It's hotter than the Infernian having a cookout on Mt. Ravatogh, and the rotating fan on the room's sole table doesn't help much to keep that at bay, but it has nice beds, and a clean bathroom, and they haven't had either of those in a long time.

It also has a city with a nightlife. And that, thank the gods, is his out.

By noon, when Noct first mentions wanting to go out for drinks when they get into Lestallum, Prompto's got his plan. By five, after they've had dinner, he starts to make noises about not feeling very well. By seven, when Noct says he's ready to head out, Prompto looks as pathetic as he possibly can and says he'd better not. He thinks he's running a fever.

Noct frowns at him, honest concern – offers to stay in case he needs something.

But Prompto tries on a shaky smile, and tells him not to hold up, and says, "You guys do a couple shots for me, though, kay?"

Then, mercifully, they're gone.

Prompto stays perfectly still on the bed for a moment, as the sound of the lock clicking reaches his ears. He waits until their footsteps have faded and they've had time to get down the stairs and out the door. 

Then he heaves a shaky sigh, reaches down, and palms himself through his jeans.

It's embarrassing how hard he is already, just from the anticipation. He can't quite keep himself from bucking up into the touch.

His fingers aren't steady as he works the button of his jeans open and pulls the zipper down. There's a definite wet spot at the front of his underwear, too, and that's something else to be humiliated about – because what kind of guy gets so wound up about spending a night with his own hand?

This kind, he guesses. The kind who hasn't got anything going for him, besides his own hand.

Stop that, Prompto tells himself, cutting in before wistful can turn to bitter.

He's been down that road before, and like hell he's walking it tonight. Not when he's finally got his time alone, and he's got enough pretty mental pictures to last for years. He's going to enjoy this, dammit.

So Prompto tries to stop thinking. He traces along the wet area at the front of his underwear, lets his index finger rub at the damp fabric. His hips rock up again, needing more, and he acquiesces, but only a little. He scratches his fingernail gently against the slit, through the cloth – hisses a breath in.

It's such an electric sensation, some agonizing mixture of too much and not enough, that Prompto does it again.

And then again, and again, until his hips are pressing up with every tiny touch and his thighs are tight and trembling. It's a great distraction from his own thoughts, which have fallen blissfully silent, leaving only white noise. There's just the want thrumming through him, visceral and real.

Carefully, Prompto eases the band of his underwear down. His fingers lift the length of himself free, and he gasps at the first stroke, head falling back against the pillow. It's never felt this good before – but then, he's never had to wait this long. He feels like someone's turned the dial on his machinery all the way up past where the warning label starts to edge over into the red.

Only a couple minutes in, he's already seconds from exploding.

Prompto scrapes together the last of his willpower and makes himself let go – makes himself take a few shaky breaths and calm down. He's been wanting this for weeks, now. He's got hours. He doesn't have to rush.

Against his stomach, Prompto's cock gives a long twitch at the thought of taking his time.

He waits a few minutes before he starts again – uses his free hand to shove up his shirt, this time, and run the pad of his thumb over first one nipple and then the other. It feels like there's a live wire from the sensitive nubs straight to his groin, and Prompto bites his lip but can't quite swallow down a whimper.

He gives his cock a few more good tugs, harder this time. He waits until he's squirming on the blanket, then lets go.

It's a cycle, at once both maddening and toe-curlingly good. Prompto keeps on longer than he thinks he will – twenty minutes, maybe, of winding himself up and backing off.

His cock's drooling precome by the time he's done. It's making a pool on his stomach, and oh sweet gods, he doesn't think he can stop himself next time.

So much for making it last.

It's like his body's caught in one of Noct's magic flasks, trapped in there with the very essence of fire. He keens when he closes his fingers around himself this time; every one of his nerves seems hyper-sensitive, every touch borderline too much.

And that's when he hears it: footsteps in the hallway.

Prompto freezes, hand still on his cock. It's got to be someone else on this floor. It's got to.

But no – that's the key in their lock, and Prompto moves faster than he's ever moved before. He yanks the blankets over the top of his rumpled shirt and open jeans, rolls on to his side and pretends to be asleep.

It's Noct, and he's alone.

Prompto can tell by the single set of footsteps, by the way the stride is just slightly off-balance, the remnant of a childhood injury Noct's never quite gotten over.

Prompto's wonders if he's left his phone, or maybe his wallet – expects that he'll grab something from the end table and take off again. But no, the footsteps are coming closer. They stop right by Prompto, and for one terrifying second, he's sure his face will give him away. Even his ears are burning; he must be bright red.

But Noct doesn't say anything. He just lingers for a minute. Then, carefully, cool fingers press against his forehead, and guilt crashes over Prompto like a wave.

He came back to make sure Prompto was all right. He thinks the flush is from the fever.

When Noct circles back around and sits down on the bed beside Prompto, opening up a magazine, Prompto can't even find it in him to be mad. He's half naked under the covers, achingly hard, within touching distance of a man he's been crushing on for literally years... and mostly?

Mostly he's kicking himself for ruining Noct's night out.

 

* * *

 

The Six want him to suffer.

That's the only reasonable conclusion Prompto can come to.

How else could he possibly be six inches from two of the hottest people on Eos, hard as a rock in his sleeping bag, while the sounds of extremely interested breathing and wet, open-mouthed kisses echo in his ears.

How else could he feasibly keep from combusting at the sound of rustling fabric and Ignis' voice, soft and cultured and strained, saying, "We'll wake them," and Gladio's gruff, whispered reply: "So keep it down."

Prompto swallows. He's suddenly glad that he burrowed down into his sleeping bag the night before, low enough that his face is obscured by the thick fabric. Otherwise, they'd realize they've already woken him. His face is burning hot, and he's really, really hoping Iggy's common sense will prevail, because if he has to stay still and listen to this, he's going to lose his godsdamned mind.

But, no. The Six are unforgiving. There's the sound of cloth on skin, and Iggy gasps softly, and Prompto feels a wash of heat sweep over him like a tidal wave in slow motion.

The air in his sleeping bag feels close and too warm; Prompto's getting dizzy from breathing it and then breathing it over again. He wishes, suddenly and urgently, that he was at least facing the other direction. There's zero chance that they'll miss any move he makes right now.

"You're a menace," Iggy says, voice pitched low and intimate. Just hearing him like that, so far from his usual calm composure, has Prompto painfully hard. He can't help it, even as the wash of desire is chased by the sharper sweep of shame. He's eavesdropping on something meant for two. He needs to stop them, before they go any further.

But how the hell is he supposed to do that? Sit up and say, "Oh, sorry, I'm awake. I'll just step outside for a minute and leave you to it."

He's giving it serious consideration right up until he loses his chance. Then, abruptly, even the possibility is stolen by a soft, wet sound and the hiss of an indrawn breath. There's a quiet slurping, random at first, then gathering in rhythm. Someone is breathing like they've just climbed Mt. Ravatogh.

And Prompto's mind, half-mad with want, can picture everything. 

He can see the way Ignis would look, head thrown back, glasses off, the crisp navy cotton of his pajamas pulled down just enough to reveal the jut of his hips and the top of his thighs and the cock that Gladio is swallowing down with intent heat. He can see Gladio's face, eyes full of promise, cheeks hollow, lips and tongue mesmerizingly occupied. He can see Gladio's hand working his own length, full heavy strokes, and Prompto's cock, rigid against his stomach, twitches in sympathetic need.

He's never envied Noct's ability to sleep through absolutely everything more than he does in this very moment.

It goes on and on, harsh breathing and enticing wet sounds and soft motion. 

Then, abruptly, Ignis makes a quiet noise. There's the drag of something along the tent floor, and Prompto pictures immaculately groomed feet, toes curling as Iggy's thighs go tense. An instant later, Gladio grunts, and Prompto pictures that, too: big fingers over his thick cock, pulling hard and fast until he comes.

Prompto bites his lip and tries to ride out the unbearable throb of his own cock. He's sure if he had the chance, he could finish himself off in about thirty seconds. He's half convinced that if he so much as shifts the wrong way, even the pressure from the cloth of his sleeping bag would be enough to get him off.

So he stays very, very still. He waits while they whisper words not meant for his ears, and the rush of shame comes back, heavy enough to drown.

Finally, after what seems like years, they settle back down in their respective sleeping bags. The tent goes quiet again, and not much after that, Gladio's snores start up.

But Prompto – Prompto takes a lot longer to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

It's a beautiful day.

The sun is high and bright in a sky that's a perfect, edge-of-summer blue. The light reflecting off the pond glimmers and catches, showing the world in flawless reflection. There's a birdbeast singing somewhere in a tree nearby.

But better than any of that is Prompto, all on his own, out here to enjoy it.

He'd be willing to swear before a jury of his peers that Noct's suggestion they camp early is the best thing that's ever happened to him. It was so easy, to beg off after they got the tent pitched, claiming he wanted to take some pictures by the water. 

So now he's got hours before sundown, and there's nothing dangerous in this area, and Prompto is absolutely edge-of-his-fingernails desperate for a few minutes in private. 

Even his dreams are conspiring against him lately. He can't keep the image of Ignis and Gladio on the floor of the tent from drifting in while he sleeps. He can't keep his mind from replaying that night in Lestallum – only, in his dreams, Noct doesn't just sit calmly on the bed and read a magazine. He pulls the covers down, and crawls over to join Prompto, and his hands are like liquid fire on every square inch of skin they touch.

Just thinking about it has him hard in his jeans already.

But this time, dammit, he can actually do something about it.

Prompto chooses a spot sandwiched between two boulders, down near the water. It keeps him out of view, and it's close to the dock, so he won't get lost trying to find his way back.

And this time, he doesn't waste any time.

He's barely out of sight when he leans his back against the cool grey stone and works down the zipper on his jeans. He fumbles at the waistband of his underwear – finds himself a dripping mess already. And when he takes himself in hand, he can't help the long, shuddering moan that forces its way out of his throat.

Five strokes in, he's pretty sure he's having a heart attack, or at least some kind of religious experience, because jerking off has never felt so good. Fifteen strokes in, he's meeting his own hand on every thrust, outright whimpering, and he can't even care how pathetic that is.

That, of course, is exactly when a voice reaches his ears.

"Prompto?"

It's Noct's voice. It's Noct's voice, and that's Noct's shadow, appearing over the top of the boulder, and when Prompto looks up, that's Noct's face, eyes huge and shocked. 

Prompto's aware, distantly, that Noct has a fishing rod in one hand. That he's changed into his white t-shirt and baseball cap – doubtless wandered off to catch something for dinner.

Way, way too late, with perfect 20/20 hindsight, it occurs to Prompto that choosing a spot by the dock is absolutely the stupidest mistake in the whole of human history. He wills a lightning bolt from above to come down and strike him dead on the spot. He won't even mind. It'll save him from the embarrassment.

"Oh, shit," says Noct. "Sorry." And he's backing up, leaving Prompto alone with a ringing in his ears and a still-raging hard on.

Utter mortification swallows him. Hot strands of it creep down his spine and burrow in his chest and scald his cheeks. 

He stuffs himself back into his underwear – back into his jeans. He zips himself up again, and he tries to breathe.

Prompto stands there, thinking unsexy thoughts, for maybe two minutes. He stands there, knowing damn well he has to go out and apologize and wanting to do nothing but swim to the bottom of the pond and bury himself in the sediment there, instead, so that no one can ever find him again.

At last, through sheer force of will, he makes one foot move, and then the other.

He forces himself to step, and step again, until the cover of the boulder falls away.

And there's Noct, not really fishing – just kind of fiddling with his lure, trying to look calm and unruffled but not really managing.

"Hey," Prompto starts, awkwardly. "I, uh. Sorry about that."

Noct clears his throat. He switches out the lure he just put on. "No big," he says. "It happens, right?" But he's not looking Prompto's way, and his cheeks are a dusky sort of pink.

Prompto did not need to hear that. He did not need to picture it happening to _Noct_ – Noct's waders around his knees, out by some fishing hole, hand working, mouth parted, three seconds from spilling all over the ground.

Prompto swallows, mouth dry.

"Yeah," he manages. 

The silence that follows is the awkward silence to end all awkward silences.

Eventually, Noct casts his line, and the sound of the reel is a buzzing break in the mortified circle of Prompto's thoughts.

"Well," Prompto manages. "I'll, uh. I guess I'll head back to camp."

Noct's eyes slide sideways – take in Prompto's face, probably beet red. They slide down, to where the shape of Prompto's erection is almost certainly billboard-obvious through the tight denim.

Noct licks his lips – glances away. He's staring firmly at the water when he says, "You're not gonna finish?"

"Um," says Prompto, intelligently.

Noct says, "I just mean," and then trails off into silence, like he had some sort of idea about what he meant when he started, but it got lost along the way and wandered off. The lure makes it back to the dock, and Noct doesn't cast again.

He half-turns toward Prompto – hesitates, then turns the rest of the way.

"I just mean," he tries again. "If you want a hand."

Prompto's brain short-circuits. He's pretty sure his mouth has actually fallen open, and he's standing there gaping like an idiot.

"Um," he says again, and it's a lot higher pitched this time.

Noct takes a step toward him, and then another. He slides the arm not holding onto the fishing pole around Prompto's shoulders.

Prompto is suddenly, intimately aware of every millimeter of skin that comes into contact with Noct's own. What little blood he still has available seems to all rush south at once, leaving his poor brain to flounder, useless and lightheaded.

Then Noct's lips are on his, and it's incredible. They're warm, and surprisingly soft, and Prompto's fighting to process the fact that yes, this is reality. Yes, his best friend who he's had a crush on for literal years is actually kissing him, and yes, Noct is leaning forward so that they're flush against one another and yes, he might actually combust right where he's standing and he wouldn't care at all, because _what a way to go_.

Carefully, Noct starts to pull away. 

He says, "I just thought," and Prompto realizes, belatedly, that he's been so trapped in his own mental euphoria that he's just been standing there, not doing anything.

Prompto says, "No, wait, don't –"

And he clutches at Noct like a drowning man gasping for air, pressing into him for another kiss.

It's awkward, and messy. Prompto has no idea what he's doing, and it occurs to him, as they both blunder through it, that maybe Noct doesn't, either. It starts simple and fairly chaste – grows to something open-mouthed with remarkable speed.

When Noct pulls back to nuzzle at his jaw, Prompto makes a frankly undignified noise. So Noct does it again – kisses down the line of his throat, and laps at the place where neck meets shoulder.

Prompto flat-out whines. He feels like Ramuh himself has just put fifty-thousand volts through him. Every tiny touch is electric, every scrape of fingernail or flicker of tongue. He's aware, dimly, when Noct lets the fishing pole fall to the dock in favor of rucking up Prompto's shirt to explore underneath – aware much more urgently when searching fingers find a nipple and skirt over it, gentle and exploratory.

Prompto gasps. His hips jerk, completely devoid of any input from his brain, and Noct pulls back just slightly. His lips are red, and his pupils are blown, and he rubs his finger again, quite deliberately, over Prompto's left nipple.

"Dude," Prompto manages. "That's, that's seriously amazing, but can we, like, skip a couple steps here?"

At that, Noct seems to realize something. He looks Prompto up and down, a long once-over. And he says, voice husky in an unfamiliar kind of way: "Were you close?"

And oh, gods, hearing his voice like that does absolutely nothing to ease the throbbing insistence of Prompto's cock.

"Yeah," he says. "And it's. It's kind of been awhile."

Noct slots his knee between Prompto's thighs, just enough pressure to tease, and Prompto shudders, hard.

"You were just gonna go back to camp?" Noct asks, in that unfamiliar, decidedly interested tone.

"Good thing I don't have to," Prompto manages, breathless. Then Noct shifts his knee, and Prompto groans like he's being eviscerated, forehead falling forward to rest on Noct's shoulder. 

When Noct does it again, he outright shakes. He can't seem to get enough air – can't seem to figure out what to do with his hands, which are wandering fitfully.

Noct says, "Gods, Prompto, look at you," and somehow, somehow there's want and affection and maybe a hint of awe in his tone, instead of whatever the appropriate response should be, when you're watching some loser shake apart after just a couple of touches.

Prompto's knees are watery and weak, and he moves with every rock of Noct's hips, pressing in for more, needing this like he's never needed anything.

Then Noct's pulling away, and the sudden loss cuts through him like a blade, sharp and sudden.

"Noct," he says, hating the way his voice sounds, reedy and thin.

But Noct says, "You'll mess your pants up," and he's reaching for the fly of Prompto's jeans, and everything kind of whites out, because oh.

 _Oh_.

Noct's hand wrapped around his cock feels like a revelation. He can barely take the sensation of it, gentle pressure that's painfully, unfairly good.

He says, "Go, don't, why are you stopping," realizes he's babbling and can't come up with anything that makes more sense.

Noct laughs and presses a kiss to the side of Prompto's neck. He says, "Breathe, Prom."

It's great advice. It might've even been doable, if Noct didn't pick just then to start moving, a leisurely, light sort of stroke. Prompto whines, somewhere low in his throat. He buries his face in the crook between Noct's neck and shoulder – presses reverent kisses there.

Every brush of Noct's fingers takes Prompto higher, coils a spring that's wound low in his abdomen, all tight heat and unbearable tension. Every time Noct reaches the head, his thumb brushes against the slit, smearing the precome gathered there.

At some point, he realizes distantly that Noct's got his own pants open, that he's rubbing himself off, too – and that's it. That's all it takes. Just the thought sends Prompto toppling over the edge.

He comes with a wavering sort of moan, shaking his way through it – feels Noct go tense beside him and hears a tiny hiss of air as he breathes in sharply between clenched teeth. Prompto knows damn well what that means.

They cling to each other, tense and trembling – and when they're done, they lean together, boneless and spent.

Prompto feels the slightest touch at the top of his hair – Noct pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, careful and soft. The warm wave of affection that sweeps through him at the realization is enough to drag Prompto under, and he slumps to sit on the wood of the dock.

A second later, Noct joins him, so close their sides are pressed together from shoulder to hip.

"That was, uh," Prompto manages, eventually, "wow."

And Noct looks over at him, expression trying to be calm and casual – not quite pulling it off. He says, "We'll be in Longwythe tomorrow. Bet I could make the hotel arrangements and get us a separate room."

That sounds… kind of like heaven, actually. A whole night, for a redux of the past few minutes, with all the time in the world to try out some of the things he's been imaging for five years.

Prompto's aware, distantly, that he's grinning like an idiot, wide and smitten. He really can't bring himself to care.

"Oh hell yeah," he says, and he wants to say more, but Noct's busy dragging him in for another kiss, and that's better than any words he could have come up with, anyway.


End file.
